Russian Roulette
by lye tea
Summary: In a high-stakes game, the revolver points at the most lethal player. /Kyouya x Haruhi; Tamaki x Haruhi/
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_"Tell me a story in a day," she says (never raising her voice)._

_"Gladly," he responds (telling her exactly what he knows she knows and wants to hear)._

. . .

Tamaki brings her a flower (pink and daring) and silently issues his opponent a challenge. He is a pugnacious one, Kyouya notes. He watches as she takes the gift and dangles it by her leg, over the ledge where it stays: precarious.

And she looks too magisterial herself, sitting there by the balcony facing them.

The two boys (one who—

one who almost made it out.

—and this one still left in the hole) who call themselves. It ends.

. . .

Messy and tangled, Kyouya is a boy forced to act a man who laments for a childhood not his own. And then there's Tamaki (whom he secretly hates and loves and wants to _be_) waltzing with her, gentle and gentlemanly. Tamaki, who is always so _happy_.

But one day, Kyouya will get his word, the last to finish is the last to win. And the final winner takes all the prize.

"You're beautiful," Tamaki says suddenly.

And both Kyouya and Haruhi turn their heads (and only Haruhi smiles back lovingly). Because only Haruhi is allowed to do so, and Kyouya must never, ever make it obvious.

Kyouya scoffs and makes some witty remark on their juvenile gestures.

. . .

Kyouya stays silent: there is no need to lie. He simply doesn't voice it.

. . .

They are so sweet and cheery together that it sickens him. He wants to tear them apart (if only for a second) and talk some _sense_ into both their heads.

"The cherry blossoms are exceptionally pretty this year. Exquisite."

Haruhi wraps her little fingers around Tamaki's and nods consent.

He thinks it's like dying a little death, being suffocated and _strangled_ with all this nauseating charm and pretentious laughs.

But they are all arrogant and pretentious, protected by their wealth. Except for her. She is different and so she intrigues Tamaki.

Kyouya would rather have it _not_, thank you. But she is there to stay and there is nothing he can do. So he sighs and sighs and retreats into numbers and calculations.

. . .

Eventually, everything will be fine and come to pass as a fancy. He waits for that day eagerly (and is disappointed and frustrated that it's taking so damn long).

. . .

_"Are you all right?" Tamaki asks_.

Tamaki is blind. He sees the glass and does not see through. But Tamaki is transparent himself with glass bones and crystallized skin.

This time, though, Tamaki does know.

And it still hurts.

. . .

Haruhi is absent (ill her father explains). Tamaki waits for him by the stone entrance gates. And the day is too short and too bleak, and out of his austere heart, Kyouya produces something genuine and half-heartfelt.

"I know."

"Then…"

Tamaki keeps his head down. "It's just that…there are some things I can't do for you, even if you are my friend."

Kyouya nods, has known all alone, and feigns nonchalance.

What isn't played out won't bother him.

So when he uses him (Tamaki, the blond, ungrateful _idiot_) he can delude himself into not feeling guilty. Guilt is guilt, but guilt has no measure and whatever Kyouya might have thought have no significance.

Fact is fact. And facts are dead.

(So is guilt.)

. . .

They call him the Puppet King, and they all bow to him.

He controls them (or so they hallucinate the domineering façade to be dictations). And they obey, that is how things work. And they—the Host Club and its patrons—are glad, knowing that there _is_ a leader.

That things are certain and destined to unfold a set way. The established rules do not explode. And they can leech onto them like parasites onto rocks.

Kyouya bears a heavy burden.

. . .

Tamaki is a good friend, and so is Haruhi (sometimes). And for now, Kyouya can forgive—just a bit.


	2. A Black Tie Event

**A Black Tie Event**

Hikaru likes Haruhi and so does Kaoru.

But Haruhi doesn't like either of them (not in _that _way, she explains). The problem is: she blushes too easily and too readily—especially when they corner her and demand to know _who does she like_.

After years at Ouran, Haruhi has perfected the art of evasion and equivocation and dashes away from their ensnaring sweetness like a mouse through a hole in the wall. Fine. Hikaru doesn't mind (so neither does Kaoru). They can wait. She'll talk, one day.

It is only a matter of time.

They were good at that. They have been waiting for an eternity.

. . .

Kyouya announced in his business voice (the one that even emperors would bow before, crippled—buckling to their knees) that they will host a black-tie event. For the seniors (that meant Mori and Hunni, incidentally) and to celebrate the nearing of the ending of a chapter of—

he trails off. Superfluous. They know his grandiose speeches by heart.

By his Highness Lonesomeness, Tamaki sulks and hunches over secret cruxes and puzzling hurts. (And wonders to himself why he is so miserable when everything is so _happy_.) He doesn't notice as the Twins sneak up on him and pull him into a closet.

Of which Kyouya pretends not to witness. _Manslaughter_, that is worth a fortune. But only if the assassination plot is successful.

"Who does Haruhi like?" Hikaru whispers urgently.

Tamaki shrugs (is confused, is stupid, is deviously thinking it must be Papa).

"Come on, Tono, tell us!" Kaoru joins in on the concert.

"I don't know. I really don't. And who's to say she likes someone?"

"Of course she does. She's been acting weird all week. So she must be in love," Hikaru continues. As if nothing has gone awry, as if he (and Kaoru) still had complete control.

They falter and drown.

And Kyouya swings open the gilded doors.

"What is this?" Kyouya asks, a shadow strung around his lips. _A smile_. His.

The Shadow-King strikes, and there is no escape. Ashamed—lured and captured into a cage—the twin birds hang their heads.

And desperately, Tamaki tries to run. The weasel darts gracefully and trips over air.

(_The brat is caught in the middle,_ he remembers his grandmother say.) Once, a long time ago, Tamaki felt his feet lifting off the ground just like now. And the horrid, frenzied lurches of sin on his hands, rotating around and around in his belly.

Kyouya smiles, Kyouya wins.

. . .

No one speaks for a week.

They make excuses of having to prepare, having to reinvent themselves for a _mar-ve-lous_ performance.

And Haruhi can only gaze on as the others shuffle around in apathy and a rapid craze.

. . .

As a cruel, malicious, unintended joke, Kyouya murmurs some news of his mother into Tamaki's ears. And like a weasel rushing towards lurid headlights, Tamaki jolts and slams against Kyouya.

He asks a question not-question. He demands an answer he doesn't want.

And Kyouya, all too enthusiastically, complies.

"She's well and healthy, remarkable."

"Where is she?"

"That I can't say."

"Why not?"

"Simple. She doesn't want to see you."

It is spiteful and repugnant but it can't be helped. Kyouya plays to win, and he swiftly tosses in his chips to stake a bet.

_Bet you a million that he loses it tonight_.

Deliberate and calm, Kyouya turns his head (not to see his "best friend" cry) and to give himself reassurance and newfound confidence. He knows. He will win. He always does.

But in this game, despite his illusions and beguiling, caffeinated charms, he still doesn't even know what is the prize. Not that it's significant.

Winning is winning is winning.

Keep that in mind.

. . .

They draw back the taffeta and crepe and let the moon illuminate the room (a suggestion by Haruhi). It is supposed to be romantic (supposed to be lucrative—Kyouya agreed quickly to that).

A dance: _would you, won't you, do you?_

No.

Kyouya whisks away glasses and delicate doily-covered plates masterfully. He is a born genius and can enchant coal into diamond.

And when he sees Haruhi in her dress, a sly smirk spreads across his thin, pale lips.

He takes her around the waist and pulls her into the waltz. The audience gasps and claps (idiots) and think it's so cute, so wonderful, so _adorable_ they could just _die_. When he leans down to kiss her, he makes sure Tamaki has a front-row view. First-class, first-rate, just for _him_.

Haruhi is paralyzed from surprise (doesn't resist).

The room deafens as the school ruptures in rapture and raucous. Time stops and lifetimes change. And in that instant, they are reborn as human.


	3. The Edge of the World

**The Edge of the World**

_…sometimes he felt like falling off…  
and the edge of the world looked so inviting and bleak_

"I was a saint once upon a time, but that was centuries ago," _and he was a devil just before that, but that was millennia ago._

"I was religious in a lifetime I don't remember," _and now she is an atheist with needles and televisions for organs_.

. . .

She is now eighteen (one plus eight does not make nine). Her hair is longer, fuller, and just as straight. She has long stopped cross-dressing (the scandal) and two years ago, Fujioka Haruhi was reborn as a girl. And in this newly touched, barely tangible, redivivus shell (ready and red, burnished and brought out of rust) she stops drawing in attention.

Not that she ever wanted it, _she would explain_. Simply that…things had been out of her control, out of her reign (like a lost-favored duchess forgotten). But now—Haruhi wants to assert—she is herself alone. Not some fungible (seemingly indispensable) part of a collective. The Host Club has lived its glory days, and now—_now_—it is her turn.

To reclaim them. Haruhi yearns to grasp what she has forfeited.

Haruhi tosses up, high into the wailing, blurry air, her cap (accidentally her diploma too) and wonders _what is the point_ of this stupid, _Western_ tradition. And as her head is racing, still burning for answers, still in immolation because of some recondite, forbidden knowledge, she laughs.

Light and cheery, a laugh she has not heard in years.

The Twins swarm around, rushing to embrace her. It makes her proud, almost haughty, like she was the queen bee and they were presenting her with pollinated gifts.

"Isn't this great, Haruhi?" Kaoru asks, never leaving his brother's side.

"Yes it is!"

"Now that high school is over, it's like our lives are really beginning."

_Or ending_.

"But there's university to consider, and I really can't—"

"Loosen up," that was Hikaru (the reckless one), "you can afford to take one day off, right? Besides" (shifty eyes) "Don't you have a date with Tono tonight?"

_Oh yes_. That was what she forgot.

"That's right…I do. I guess I got so caught up with graduation that I…completely forgot about our date."

"Then you better go get ready."

For a moment, she thought she detected a tone of sarcasm but brushed it off. That had been so long ago (what felt like a distant memory sinking below a dusted horizon). And she and Hikaru (and Kaoru too, because neither Twin wanted to be excluded) are both mature, civilized people. And they both know it is all just-a-matter-of-time.

. . .

Behind the main Suoh residence lies another manor house: there lays the road. It was erected in the ancient style, for some hazy ancestor's second wife and first love. There is a secret, shrubbery-concealed path, leading from the back gate to the front door.

And sitting, feet dangling off the banister, on the front porch is Tamaki deep in contemplation. Lines (where there once was nothing) etched at the corners of his mouth and words half-forming on his lips.

He practiced.

And repeated.

"Will you—"

Time stops short. He blinks, emits and anguished cry, ruffles his blond feathery hair, and crumples the paper. It is useless. It is _idiotic_. It is a disaster waiting for the dams to break.

. . .

Haruhi seeks Kyouya's advice (really knowing, in her core, that she shouldn't).

He orders tea to be served, examines her cursorily, full of that detestable, characteristic curiosity—eyes never flickering, never _blinking_ (she thinks he _must_ be a robot). And suddenly, Kyouya smiles cunningly (_sinisterly_) and Haruhi knows she is in trouble.

Immense trouble, something she can't sweet-talk her way out (not that he ever fell for sanguine smiles and syrupy swords—of words adored). But still, his expression is benign and cordial, is intrigued. And so, he sympathetically (grudgingly) listens to her woes.

"I have a feeling he's planning something tonight," she parts her lips and rivers flow out.

"And why is that?" (Kyouya would be an excellent psychiatrist, if he weren't so greedy and noxious and _smart_).

"I'm not sure. Well, for one thing, he has been avoiding me all week. And when I tried to call him last night, just to ease my nerves about graduation and everything, he…just too _weird_, you know?"

"Perhaps he's been preoccupied. Tamaki was never one for multi-tasking," _the artless brute_.

"Maybe. But then when I asked him if he were still up for tonight, he was very clear that I 'had to be there no matter what'."

"He's confusing. That's what he is. Don't think too much on it. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have an important business matter to attend."

Haruhi rises from her seat, thanked him (not sure for what) and left. Left a melancholic twang in the wake.

Haruhi slips some more, off the edge of the world.

. . .

Formal attire has never been her forte, abstruse abstractions implanted with surgical detail. But still, she could barely make heads-or-tails of which is which. _Taffeta is for…never wear silk when…_

She slammed down on the acceleration and swerved into a back alley. Out, she steps from the car, heady (old mead for the old maid—the adage goes) and—she loses the rhythm. Down some dingy stairs, covered in brown, rotting leaves, and muted (the streets) with sounds of soft, classical piano.

Haruhi pauses momentarily at the door, brushes back her hair, and plunges through.

Inside, Hikaru and Kaoru welcome her happily.

She runs to embrace them, afraid that if she didn't, they would disappear through cloth and smoke like fallen pearls from that dress they made (just for her) last year.

"What's wrong, Haruhi?" Kaoru asks, never ceasing to lace up the collar (time is short: the show is in two days).

"I need a dress," she responds and laughs. Never thought she'd ever say those words.

. . .

Tamaki is particularly jumpy and nervous that night. He spills wine before the bread even arrives, rubs at it hurriedly—_wait, dab not rub_ (she wants to admonish)—and wrings the napkin into swans and turtles and other origami masterpieces.

She sips at her water, refused the wine, and looks at him anxiously. He has not slept in days: eyes gloomy and dark, sunken. Skin is taut and waxy like old newspapers covering the sickly flesh of corpses. _Today is June 11, _she reads the title across his forehead.

"What is it?" Haruhi dares to speak.

"Nothing, nothing. So how was graduation?"

"All right. I'm glad high school is finally over," _lies_, "But I am going to miss everyone."

"Tokyo, right?"

"Sorry, what?"'

"Tokyo University, that's where you'll be studying next year, right?"

Haruhi plays with her fork, delaying the inevitable. "Yes." It comes out as a choked whisper.

"That's great. It's very prestigious, very…you."

"And you'll be at the Sorbonne?"

"Yeah. Just for one year."

"Oh. I see. Well, it's also very prestigious and very _you_."

The joke is unappreciated by both. She sighs, never was one for comedy. Now _tragic_-comedy, in that she is an esteemed epicure.

"Haruhi, I was thinking…"

"Yeah?" she prompts (prods, growing impatient—already knows).

"Let's get married."

And that is that.

In a moment, everything collapses, and Haruh is pushed beyond the edge of the world. She gathers herself and jumps, not glancing back. _No time_. Tamaki reaches to pull her back, hands trembling.

But she keeps falling.


	4. Studies in Methodology

**A/N: **I'm sort of on a "cleaning spree" with some of my older fics. This one caught my eye, so I decided to finish it. Two chapters left.

* * *

**Studies in Methodology**

There are strategies to every game. Some good, some bad. But no strategy is without its merits. It all depends upon the individual player.

To win a game of monumental risks, the optimal move is a feint. A turn-around, a blinded, side-gained entrance. The key (Kyouya's father explains) is waiting for the enemy to choke himself. And _then_, when he's gagging on his own cleverness, only then do you attack.

. . .

Tamaki writes her letters stamped from Paris. She cherishes them as small tokens and sad mementos (moments she steals away just for herself). She is so busy now, so exhausted and numb. She diligently attends school day after day and works hard night by night. Gradually, she loses count on the forsaken hours of sleep.

Kaoru tells her that she needs to eat, that it's unhealthy continuing like this. She barely hears, registers what he says. _The integral of the square root of five times x divided by…_

"Our mother's having a party this weekend," says Hikaru.

"You should come," Kaoru finishes.

Haruhi looks up. The twins wince in fright. She looks like a total mess, a deranged, bedraggled, and decidedly not-hot mess.

"What? Sorry. I wasn't paying attention. I need to figure out this problem…"

They sigh in unison and quietly watch her fade into oblivion. Her body fades and sinks into a stream of mathematical equations and fanciful equitation. Soon, she will dissolve altogether.

They wait patiently for her to fall asleep before closing the textbook.

. . .

In Paris, the summers are brutal. They are unforgiving in their blazing treachery.

Tamaki takes note and dutifully reports back to Kyouya.

. . .

One day, Kyouya will make him pay. He will make him regret and plead. He will teach him the fallacies of mercy and the truth in triumph (when nothing else matters). But for now, Kyouya replies back to Tamaki's letters, answering his little questions and assuaging his guilt. Because he is a good friend, the best friend.

_She is fine_.

Kyouya signs his name with a special extravagance.

_P.S. Make hearts but not demands_.

. . .

Hunni slices his blade through the hair, beheading wisterias and vanquishing daffodils. He is elegant, volant, and ungracious in losing.

"For Usa-chan," Hunni cries his declaration of war and lunges forth. He is defiant and determined.

Mori smiles (proud and tall) and easily evades. "You are being too rash. You allow your emotions to consume you. _Focus_."

Swift and sudden, Mori lands the ending blow. Hunni inhales sharp and full (dreams of violet crowns glistening from dew) and cheerfully accepts his loss. The game stops, and they are spent.

"So who d'you think will win?" Hunni asks.

Mori shrugs, following into step.

"I bet it's Tono."

Mori studies him carefully, catching each inflection of voice and every hesitating quirk of chin. He does not respond (Hunni understands). They will wait.

It is futile to bet on a losing game.

. . .

Tamaki's tactic is easily unveiled, so readily dissolved into a benign dilution. He is so predictable, so unworthy of being lauded as _opponent_.

Kyouya thinks through oceans of methods and maneuvers and endgames.

_In the end…_

He knows he will win. Unlike Tamaki, he does not doubt himself.

. . .

Kyouya always (preventatively) sets his standards low. It is a purposeful attack, a low-guarding, slow-abiding offense that is guaranteed to succeed. It is not pessimism but wisdom. And time and time again, he triumphs.

"Check—mate."

Haruhi stares at the chessboard, confused. She had it down, so sure, so perfect. But the pieces (in mutiny) are punctured from demolition.

Slyly, he usurps her king with his queen. On her wooden, white, marmoreal dais, she gloats. Her head is shorn of light (noonday sun) and smugly, she takes the throne.

"But…how," Haruhi says.

"Simple. You raised your expectations too much. Never seek victory, for surely you will fail. Anticipate defeat, and you will flourish."

She nods, pretending to understand.

Kyouya is so odd, an enigma that can't be surfaced.

. . .

- Mon femme, elle aime causer (ou comme elle dit). Elle n'aime pas communiquer.

_Elle ne sait pas. Elle sait…elle avait—au moins, il n'est pas naïf plus. _

- C'est difficile. Excusez-moi, je suis en retard.

. . .

When Tamaki calls, she always answers on the third ring. It is a ritual of theirs. Not one ring sooner, not one later. It is precise and expected. And she has forsaken surprises now and forever.

Sometimes, he quizzes her on her schoolwork. She gets the questions right, every time. Occasionally, she inquires about his travels, his preparations in becoming the next Suoh president, CEO, Lord and Emperor. He would deflect her arrows, goes off rambling on a ventose sojourn about Antoinette.

As he talks, Haruhi lets her mind drift elsewhere. Soon (he promises) he will visit her or bring her to France (you'll love it there). He is effusive, unrelenting in his charm, cheery bliss, and all things bright. But she doesn't have the heart to tell him—

_Tell me what?_

—That you, well…

"Haruhi?"

She knows he wants an answer, demands for it immediately. He tries to guilt her with childlike, guileless antics. But she just couldn't muster up the courage, the words (master the emotions churning in her belly).

And so, for now, she replies with a vague maybe.

In the morning, she calls Kyouya and humbly requests for a lesson in chess.

. . .

Tamaki recounts his Parisian escapades with religious zeal. Amused, Kyouya skims the heart-dotted pages and tries to decipher the message. Communicating with Tamaki is always a chore.

It's difficult to talk to someone who thinks he's a fairy.

But Kyouya respects him—just a little. Because Tamaki is truly kind, and _that_ is something Kyouya can appreciate. Kindness, he learned long ago, can be a powerful explosive if wired properly.

Tamaki had the magical ability of willing impossibilities into existence.

He had a heart large enough to carry continents. He simply loved too damn much.

. . .

On Fridays, Kyouya brings her on a date. He picks her up at seven pm sharp in a shady black car with the windows rolled tightly shut. He waits for the driver to open the door, steps out, and invites Haruhi into the crypt.

And together, they descend (down the path of madness) the roads of Tokyo.

It has become a fine, well-tuned display between two old friends.

Today, he breaks the structure, the familiar taste of impasse separating them. He shows up on her porch early in the morning, bearing two golden cups of steaming coffee.

"So, where to this time, Kyouya-senpai?" she says, continuing their endless charade.

"A kabuki play. Surprised?"

"Frankly, yes." She wonders what demonic joke he will reveal this time.

"Since you started classes—and my new schedule with the business—we've hardly had the time to see each other. So I thought it would be a good idea for us to spend the day together, Haruhi."

"What're you plotting?"

"Nothing. I am not as devious as you make me to be."

Haruhi scrutinizes him for subversive clues. His face is a high wall of cordial impassivity. Impressed, she concedes him this match.

. . .

Kyouya's kisses are abrupt, sharp, and perfunctory. His gestures (hands gliding down her back for the tricksy laceys) are mechanical.

Pushing away, Haruhi looks up and confronts his gaze. Where his glasses meet his nose, there engraved is a permanent slash of red. Like blood on alabaster, it is kind of pretty and kind of tragic. Haruhi reaches to touch it, but he catches her hand. Smirking, Kyouya presses her palm against his cheek. She is startled but doesn't release hold.

He is amused (thinks he's trapped her with the battalion of amazement).

He makes a mental footnote to inform Tamaki, to raise the wager and the stakes.


End file.
